Best Laid Plans (Dearly Beloved) by Silver James Page B

glanced at her watch. “And I have an appointment with the florist in an hour.”
    “Laurel will calm down in her own good time. I would prefer the Royal Doulton Platinum, but Laurel would pick the Doulton Gold Ribbon. Call the florist to reschedule. I’m paying the man enough he can make time for you another day.”
    “Mr. Grant—”
    “Nick.”
    Her mouth gaped open. Score another point for him. He’d surprised her. But then he’d surprised himself as well. This conversation wasn’t going the direction he’d intended. She inhaled deeply and he felt the effect of that rise of her breasts directly below his belt.
    “Mr. Grant.”
    “Nick, or if you prefer something a little more formal, Nicholas. I must warn you, though. My mother is the only woman who calls me that.”
    “I just bet.” She muttered the words under her breath, but he heard them.
    “May I call you…” His voice trailed off as he tried to remember her first name.
    “Claire. And no. You may not. This is a business relationship, Mr. Grant.”
    “Oh? And here I thought you didn’t believe in mergers and business, Claire.”
    “I prefer you call me by my last name, Mr. Grant.”
    “Fine. Then Vitale it is.”
    She huffed out an exasperated breath and he braced in case she whipped out her index finger again. That thing was positively lethal. “What is it that you want, Mr. Grant?”
    “I want you to have a seat, Vitale, and have a conversation with me.”
    “That’s Ms. Vitale to you.”
    “Are you afraid to sit down, Ms. Vitale?” Color stained her cheeks and Nick decided he liked the effect. He hadn’t teased a woman in a very long time—especially one who wasn’t afraid to tell him no.
    She hummed something that sounded familiar as she sank onto the chair, leaned back, and gracefully crossed her left leg over her right at the knees. And lovely legs they were. In fact her figure had curves in all the right places. He’d never understood his colleagues’ obsession with stick-thin trophy wives half their ages. Women were like wine—better savored when they’d aged and mellowed to full-bodied flavor.
    He shifted slightly to cover the growing tightness in his trousers. He cleared his throat to cover his amusement as he identified the song she’d been humming—“Who’s Afraid of the Big Bad Wolf.”
    Claire glanced at her watch and then stared at him. “I should start charging you by the hour.”
    Nick coughed to hide his thoughts, which had most definitely taken a turn south. To cover, he turned and rifled through the papers on his desk. He found the bill he’d been searching for and read it over. He glanced at her over the top of the page. “It might be cheaper.”
    She offered a frosty smile. “Good thing I have an iron-clad contract then.” Once again, she stared at her watch, the gesture pointed. “Again, what is it you want, Mr. Grant?”
    You. In my bed. I want to feel your lips as I kiss them. His thoughts tumbled straight to places he’d dammed up years ago. “All of you.”
    Claire’s mouth gaped. “All of me?” She cleared her throat. “Excuse me? You didn’t just say that, did you?”
    “I did, yes. I want to hire you. Full time. Turn your other clients over to your assistant. Or to another firm. I don’t really care. I want your entire attention focused on this wedding—on my daughter.”
    ****
    Claire stared at Nick Grant and reined in her imagination. He didn’t want her. He only wanted her expertise.
    If that meant Laurel got the wedding of her dreams, it would be worth it. Her other contracts were still in the early stages. Heidi, her most efficient assistant, could manage with minimal input from her.
    A part of her brain cautioned her to take time to consider all the implications. Her sexy bits were shouting and jumping up and down, determined to shush the logical part. The idea of spending more time with Nick—Mr. Grant, she reminded herself—was far more appealing than it should be. And she